


Illya and the Tambourne

by spikesgirl58



Series: Illya and the Gypsies [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why do tambourines cast such a spell over Illya?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illya and the Tambourne

Illya stepped from the sidewalk and into the warmth of the bar. Outside the wind was gusting through the streets of New York like wind bellowed down a canyon. It was cold and spoke of disappointment to Illya. Or maybe it was just him.

Growing up he loved the cold, even when it was in Siberia. Of course there it could kill you, but so could loving the wrong person in his line of work.

Illya looked around and spotted Napoleon sitting at a corner table and moving easily to the music. Illya raised a hand and Napoleon gestured him over.

Bodies moved and shifted as he passed, sometimes accompanied by a flirty look or open admiration. Illya was careful to keep his hands close to his body. He could tell some of the men in the room were a bit proprietary.

“You made it,” Napoleon said over the music. Even hidden away in this corner, the music found them.

“There was some trouble on Twelfth. A shooting, I think. The police had it well in hand.” Illya picked up a single sheet and glanced down it. Pickled vegetables, checha, a string cheese usually eaten with beer, fried fish and… Illya stopped, looked up at Napoleon, then back down. “Fried brown bread? Really? I’ve never seen that outside of Russia”

“I thought that would get your attention. I’ve already ordered some; along with some vodka for you. I stumbled in here about a week ago to get out of the rain.” Napoleon tapped the bar menu with his forefinger. “I saw that and had to order it. It’s as good as your mother’s.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” A look of sly defiance slowly appeared on Illya’s face and Napoleon laughed.

“I expected nothing less of you.” The music ended and there was a splattering of applause. Napoleon applauded louder than most.

“I didn’t think that you particularly enjoyed folk music.”

“It’s not always a matter of enjoyment as much as it is encouragement.”

Illya smiled fondly at Napoleon and shook his head. On stage the band began to perform something vaguely familiar. He looked sharply at the stage and the lights caught cymbals of the tambourine and they danced with color.

                                                            ****

Illya sat between Kezai and Onas as they huddled around the campfire. It wasn’t that it was cold, far from it. Rather it was to escape the mosquitoes that buzzed them. The smoke would drive them back for a few minutes and there was a respite.

It had been a magical summer for Illya. He’d stumbled upon Lyuba’s encampment last year. Illya’s parents saw no harm in them and they had wintered there. Now Illya was home from school and every free moment he had, he spent with Lyuba and her family. He and Onas had developed a great friendship. Onas taught him the language of the Gypsies and Illya had returned the favor by helping Onas with his math.

The days were spent running wild and the evenings were for the campfire. Illya absorbed everything he could about their way of life and customs, to the point of where he was declared a member of their clan, a great honor. They’d given him a Romani name, Golden, a reference to his blond hair. He grew it long and tied it back with a ribbon Kezai had found.

“I think she dances beautifully, don’t you, Golden?” Kezai was just on the brink of womanhood and envied the way men watched her older sister. The woman swirled and her hair and skirt flared and surged as she spun. The _galbi_ around her waist caught and threw the firelight from one golden coin to the next.

“Yes, beautifully.” But Illya wasn’t watching Lavinia as she swayed and moved to the music. He was mesmerized, instead, by Riley’s tambourine. . It was hard to take his eyes off the instrument as it danced in the firelight. Illya had never seen a tambourine before this summer and he was transfixed by it. Not so much the instrument itself, which was straight forward, but rather the music that could be coaxed from it. Illya had learned to play a couple of Romani songs on the Pan pipe and Riley accompanied him. Lyuba told him that he had a good ear for music and that thrilled him.

Onas gave Illya a playful shove. “Golden, you’re not even watching…”

There was suddenly a great explosion as a band of horsemen rode into the camp, their guns blazing. Women began screaming and Illya grabbed Kezai and Onas and dove for cover. One of the horsemen snatched up Lavinia as she ran, but she kicked and punched her way free. The noise was terrible and abruptly his friends were ripped from him.

Kezai was struggling as two men tried to tear her clothes from her. Onas charged only to be clubbed with a gun butt. Without thinking, Illya jumped to his feet, prepared to do battle and he stopped as the gunman turned. Before him stood Afanasy Ivanovetch, a neighbor up the road from his parents’ _dacha_.

“Illya Nickovetch?”  The man lost his interest in Onas and Kezai and tossed them aside to confront Illya instead. With relief, Illya saw his friends run to Lyuba and disappear into the safety of the woods.

“Go to my house,” Illya shouted in Romani to Lyuba and Afanasy Ivanovetch slapped him. “Hurry!” he added and then held up an arm to block the man’s next blow. He’d worked hard this summer and, while he was small for his size, he was very strong.

“What are you doing here, Illya Nichovetch?”

“These are my friends.”

“So, those nasty rumors I’ve heard in town are true.”

Illya had heard the whispering behind his back as he walked through town. He’d lost his temper with the town butcher and shouted at the man when he refused to serve Illya. The constable had paid his father a visit and the matter had been quickly settled. His father had cautioned him, but did not forbid him from visiting the band. “What do I care what little chickens cackle about. Perhaps if they minded their own business, it would better serve them.”

“These animals are liars! They are thieves and they are filth.” Afanasy Ivanovetch spit and Illya felt his blood boil.

“No! They are good. They are not our enemies. They are just like us.”

“Be careful what friends you choose, Illya Nichovetch, and be very careful the words you speak.”

Illya realized he’d spoken in Romani and he grinned slyly. “I could caution you the same, _Phal_.”

“These dogs are nothing like us and you should be ashamed to associate with anything called a Gypsy.”

“I would rather spend a lifetime with them as opposed to a moment with a khullike you,” Illya spit back, anger over-ruling his common sense. The backhand knocked Illya from his feet and he was sent sprawling amid the debris that had been the brightly colored wagons and furniture. He could hear people shouting and animals protesting as Afanasy Ivanovetch stood over him, straddling him.

“This is your only warning, Illya Nichovetch. The next time I will not be so kind.” He kicked Illya sharply in the ribs and walked away. It seemed hours before Illya was able to catch his breath and drag himself home.

His father was furious and wanted revenge upon Afanasy Ivanovetch, but Illya begged him not to, in the name of his friends. The camp was gone when he was able to venture back into the woods and Lyuba never returned. All that remained of the campsite was the matted down grass, trash, and what was left of the tambourine, now shattered and broken, a bit like Illya’s idealism. It was the first time Illya had experienced such prejudice and he swore it would never happen again, not as long as he could draw a...

                                                            ****

A creak, the mere whisper of a sound and Illya froze. You didn’t live long in this business without developing a second sense about such things.

They had been sent into a village that had been long abnadoned. The higher-ups wanted to know if it could be made inhabitable again. From what Illya had seen of the decrepit ghost town, it was well beyond saving. Still he was a good soldier and a better Russian. He did as he was told.

The rest of Illya’s team had fanned out, each one checking for anything that make sway his superiors one way or the other.

Illya had picked a church for his building. On the surface, he’d said it looked to be the most dangerous and he’d not subject his men to such a thing. Inwardly, he hoped that perhaps some of the delicate religious icons remained. He’d not seen such a sight for a very long time. He took off his hat, as was befitting in a church, even a ruined one and moved inside.

There were some icons still visible

Then he’d heard the creak and had stopped. He’d have attributed it to the wind, but the air was still. There was something or someone here.

Slowly, more slowly than slow itself, he made his way through the rubble and debris to a narrow staircase. A wiser man wouldn’t have risked it, but Illya was not always as wise as he was impulsive. A shadow caught his eye now and he knew there was someone down in the basement.

Quickly, he moved down the stairs, not giving them a chance to protest or collapse beneath him. On solid ground again, he stopped to get his bearings. The shadows, for now there were several, moved easily. He’d not been heard.

Creeping forward, he rounded a corner and froze. A small group of people huddled around a fire. Over it, meat cooked and the flames sizzled as fat and juice fell into it.

For what seemed an eternity, he watched them and remembered. He remembered a summer he spent running wild with his Gypsy friends, the laughter and the terrible conclusion.

Then there was a knife at his throat and a voice was hissing in his ear, “Move, and I will gut you like a pig.”

“I like pigs,” Illya replied in Romani. “They are intelligent and loving creatures.”   Lyuba had taught him that.

“You speak Romani?” The knife was lowered and Illya spun to face his attacker. There was something familiar… then, the man whispered. “Golden, is that you?”

“Onas?” Instantly, the two men were embracing, kissing, and laughing. “How can it be?”

“And you, proud Russian soldier… no, not a soldier, but an officer.”

“You play the game, you reap the benefits.”   Illya held him at arm’s length for a moment, then hugged him tightly again. “How are Luyba and Kezai?”

“Good. They are in France now, just outside of Paris. It’s a little safer there, but not much. Come, meet my family.”

The time passed quickly, too much so for Illya even think. Of course, his men would be worried. Of course, they would come looking for him. It was expected. Had he only been a bit more careful and thought about what sort of danger he was placing his friend in, he would have instantly bid him well and left.

Instead, he stopped, eager to learn about his friend’s life and adventures, as well as the rest of the band. He ate, offering money when he couldn’t offer food. He laughed and then Tsura, Onas’s wife stood, picked up a tambourine and began to dance. Once again, the instrument shook and cast its spell over Illya. It washed away his weariness and stress and passion bubbled up in its place.

“She’s beautiful, yes?”

“Too beautiful for you. I think I will take her,” Illya teased.

“In your dreams, Russian Soldier.” Onas thumped his chest proudly. “You need to be a man to bed a Gypsy woman.”

“That leaves you out, then.”

Onas made a good-natured jab at him and they began to tussled, growling out Romani insults. The whole time Tsura continued to dance and sing softly.

A shot rang out and Onas crumpled in Illya’s arms. Tsura screamed and ran to them as Illya laid his friend’s body, for he was certain the man was dead.

“What have you done?” Illya shouted at the bewildered soldier, a young man named Fyoder Petrovich.

“He… he was attacking you, Comrade Lieutenant.” Fyoder Petrovich had dropped his rifle as Onas’s family crowded around him.

“He was my friend!”

“You are shot, Comrade Lieutenant.”

It was only then that Illya began to register the pain in his shoulder. The bullet has passed through Onas’s body into his, binding them forever as brothers.

“Good. Then my body will hurt as much as my heart.” He touched Tsura’s arm and she looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. He took her hand and placed it against his wound. “We are brothers, in blood and in soul. I will take care of you for I am family.”

He gave her the remainder of his pay, and a card where he could be reached, then he stood wearily. He must have passed out then because he remembered waking up in a hospital with a doctor rambling on about how lucky he was. Strangely enough, he didn’t feel lucky.

                                                                        ****

Fingers snapped in front of his nose and Illya started and looked into his partner’s eyes. They were warm but touched with concern. “Are you okay, Illya?”

Illya nodded his head slowly, still staring at the musician as he wielded the tambourine. “The music reminds me of… too many… memories.” He tried to force a smile, but failed.

“Judging from your expression, I’ve venture that they weren’t all pleasant ones. Let’s get out of here.” Napoleon stood, but Illya caught his sleeve and tugged him back down.

“Nonsense. You are enjoying yourself, Napoleon. We should stay.” He could see the struggle in Napoleon’s eyes. He was having fun and he wanted to stay with the music and the lights. Illya had shared much with his partner, some would say too much, but he couldn’t bring himself to share this memory. The best he could do was lock it away. One of his most cherished aspect of his relationship with Napoleon was that his partner would understand and not pry.

“Frankly, I’m already bored, the truth be known. Let’s just go grab some Chinese and catch the fight on the TV.”

“Who’s fighting?” Illya stood without trying to appear eager.

“Some kid called Cassius Clay. They say he’s quite the up and comer.” Napoleon tossed some bills on the table and tucked his money clip away.

“With a name like that?”

“Beats Kuryakin.” They left talking between themselves. No one in the room paid either man any attention as on stage the tambourine continued its wild Gypsy dance at the end of its owner’s hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
